


barnburner

by bellmaree



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 01:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellmaree/pseuds/bellmaree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>zayn didn't think he would get attached to his competition. niall doesn't know why he threw the match. harry and louis don't do well with secrets. and liam seems to always have to fix things. a boxing au wherein zayn, louis, and liam are from one gym and niall and harry are from another. they box, they don't, they laugh, they don't, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. rough around the edges

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on [livejournal](http://hanschenfangirl.livejournal.com/133160.html)

_"Bit rough around the edges, like you, Zayn."_  
  


The building itself was unremarkable. The outside was painted a fading grey, the chipping red paint indicating the large structure’s original use as a furniture warehouse lining the top edges, and the doors were small and the almost nonexistent parking lot was appropriated for the record store next door. Inside, however, was a whole different story. The smell of sweat-soaked plastic, damp cloth and just-about-rusting metal mingled in the air, hanging stagnant with the determined grunts, idle chatter, barked instructions and heavy clanging echoing through the sectioned-off gym. The sets of equipment wrapped around the outside edges of the large room were dining places, only calling more attention to the truly grand centerpiece of the fitness center: the well-kept, almost gleaming from over-maintenance, boxing ring.  
  
Some of the younger patrons eyed it longingly as they used other machines, lifting dumbbells and scowling as the gym skylight shone like a museum spotlight upon the mat and ropes. In perfect condition, the ring was reserved for only the crème de la crème de la crème de la crème, those proficient enough in skill and agility to honestly and modestly prove superior to the regular Toms allowed to use the rest of the gym at their own leisure. The gym manager and owner, S.C., was very stringent about just who was blessed enough to step on the practically brand-new vinyl stretched across the wood. He kept a tight list, and that list was invite-only, like the VIP section of a club where even the scantily-clad women can’t get in free.  
  
  
\----  
  
  
Out of all his professionally successful boxers, Liam Payne was by far S.C.’s favourite, the young gun he’d trained from the moment he saw him knock a tear into the seam of a brand-new punching bag at the tender age of sixteen. S.C. had a knack for picking up the scraps nobody believed in and seeing the potential, carving a keen eye and firm muscle into more than a few wound-up teenagers. Payne had had his fair share of fights and ended up with three welterweight championship belts in a row and one of the smartest ring girls as a wife after his first loss in three years. (When asked why she waited before saying yes to his multitudes of proposals, Danielle stated blankly, “I didn’t want him to think that just because he wasn’t on top of the boxing world, that he wasn’t the top of mine.”)  
  
Now Liam was one of the youngest retired professional boxers ever to return to the boxing world as a trainer at 26, working exclusively for S.C. and his protégés. “Semi-crouch, then, yep, quick, upright stance and half uppercut, jab, full crou- _no_ , it’s a _half_ uppercut, then jab, full-”  
  
Liam’s current work in progress was one young Zayn Malik, a twenty-two-year-old spitfire who was becoming increasingly frustrated with his lack of progress on the combination, as his feet just wouldn’t move fast enough to work back to avoid a straight coming right at him. Standing at the bag, Zayn couldn’t stop landing punches, arms moving faster than the tube on a good day, snapping into the equipment with accuracy and force. When it came to footwork and dodging, well, that was an entirely different story, wasn’t it?  
  
Zayn hadn’t always wanted to box. If he had, he probably wouldn’t have been so quick to pick up a rough smoking habit; as it was, he expressed a desire to quit and, in the meantime, was trying to limit himself to only a few a day at most. Nobody was surprised, however, to find out all his little quirks uncharacteristic of boxers, as Zayn had always been kind of a rule breaker. It was what attracted him to the bag and the unconventional gym in the first place. No one could blame him- or stop him, for that matter. Not that they wanted to. It was a general consensus that he looked pretty good in a workout top.  
  
Dark eyes deep-set, brow resolute, and jaw firmly locked in place, Zayn quickly mouthed the combination twice through to himself, head bobbing at the first syllable of each move. He took a deep breath and nodded curtly at Liam. “Let’s go.”  
  
A worn but resolute glove flew at Zayn the second he slipped into a semi-crouch, following through into nothing but thin air as he ducked to the left, straightening into an upright stance and stepping forward with a digging left ‘hookercut’ in one swift move. Zayn’s own glove slammed into Liam’s bare torso with a thud, his right arm immediately jabbing forward to land another punch, this time into the gut, before pulling back and falling into a full crouch. His eyes flicking over Liam, Zayn shifted his weight back and forth between his feet to maintain momentum in case Liam decided to surprise-counter, as he was wont to do when Zayn correctly performed a combination.  
  
He did, of course; Liam was nothing if not predictable in that regard. He took a firm swing at Zayn’s right side, which was countered with a left cross, which, in turn, failed to land. That was not suffered gladly, and Liam landed two quick jabs into Zayn’s shoulder before pulling off a glove with his teeth and reaching for a towel. “Good go, mate. Knew it would only take a bit for you to get it.”  
  
Half-smiling and pulling off his own gloves, Zayn opened his mouth and poured water from his bottle in, tossing his head to and fro to try and shake off what little sweat collected in his hair (which he kept longer than was probably regulation, but few people bothered him with the details). “This is fucking hard, Li.”  
  
“You’re kidding. And here I was thinking it’s easier than even basic geography,” chimed a simpering figure approaching the ring. He pushed his hair back and stepped through the ropes – whereupon S.C. called out from his office, “Use the stairs, Tomlinson, we’ve been over this!” – and winked at Zayn, who scowled and glared at the shorter man. It wasn’t Zayn’s fault he wasn’t the cleverest bulb in the box. And the constant blows to the head, despite the padding, probably didn’t help, either.  
  
Hoisting himself onto the corner post of the ring, Louis Tomlinson smirked at Liam, who, leaping to Zayn’s defence, asserted, “Come off it, mate, he just got the hang of a tough-as combination.”  
  
Louis Tomlinson, for all of his attitude and all the shit he gave the other members of the gym, was one of the most experienced boxing referees in the county. When he was eighteen and Liam was twenty, he had tried his hand at boxing himself, but had failed absolutely miserably. (“What the fuck, Li?” he had yelled in annoyance. “You said this was easy!” Liam had only laughed, “For me, it is! Sorry, mate!”)  
  
He had given up that brief fantasy almost immediately, settling instead to watch Liam do his thing in the ring nearly every day. Louis began trailing along the outsides of the gym, running on the treadmill or using the elliptical machines or stationary bikes, all while keeping a steady eye on the boxing ring and its adjacent training area. He read up extensively on the rules, regulations, and history of boxing and became omnipresent at all S.C.-operated events. Not just that; in addition, Louis made it a mission to attend any event even vaguely related to boxing in any of the adjacent four towns, pushing S.C. to finally just give up and let him referee one of the junior matches. Louis’ seemingly endless enthusiasm in the ring – and his persuasive pout when he didn’t get his way – launched him right up the boxing ladder, and by age twenty-four, he was one of the most famous (or infamous) referees in the region, known not only for his objectivity and fairness in the ring, but his rapier wit and jaunty, judgmental comments outside it.  
  
“Well, then, good go, Zayn,” Louis offered honestly, leaning forward to pat him on the shoulder. “You’ve got a few matches left and they’re coming up soon, so that’s all set and well.”  
  
Zayn raised an eyebrow, his half-smile at the compliment shifting into a slight frown at the new information. “How far off? I really need to get more work in before I take on too many more challengers. And where’re they at?”  
  
Louis jumped down from the post, landing lightly on his feet outside the ring. He dashed into S.C.’s office, wherein a brief, muffled argument seemed to take place, and flew back out again, a black binder in hand. This binder held the match tour dates for all the up-and-coming fighters for the next year. Louis ducked back through the ropes and sat down next to Liam on the vinyl ring floor. His tongue quickly darted out to moisten his thumb to easily page through it; Louis then began flicking through the pages before reaching the spread that detailed Zayn’s previous scores, his weight class and base stats, and his match dates.  
  
“Any time now would be nice,” Zayn prodded, taking a few steps closer to the pair.  
  
Sighing deeply, Louis unhurriedly looked up at the young boxer, extending a lazy, saccharine-sweet smile before leaning his head down and reading out a selection of the dates. “Well, Mr Fussy, you’ve got two matches here in two weeks, one against that easy beat you took down just the other month, and then one against some lad all the way out from the boonies in Mullingar. Dunno why he’s taking a tour down here, but hey, experience’s experience. You can take a look at his stats probably tonight, eh, Liam?”  
  
“Wait. You said Mullingar? You talking about that Horan kid? Yeah, I’ve heard of him,” Liam nodded slowly, biting his lip in thought. “Twenty-one, I think. Bit rough around the edges, like you, Zayn, but an overall strong fighter. It’ll be a good go-round, especially if he’s coming down all this way just for a fight.”  
  
Stretching his arms behind his head, Zayn gave Liam a lopsided grin. “Then a fight is just what he’ll get.”  
  
  
\----  
  
  
“C’mon, Horan, get’cher shit together!” growled a Scottish accent, the high lilt of the female voice muffled by the clenched jaw surrounding it. “Yer takin’ on that Malik lad from Bradford in Wembley, so you better stop messin’ around and beat this punk already.”  
  
A barking laugh escaped, not even barred by the jawful of mouthguard taking up the space in Niall Horan’s mouth. “Duhn’t ya w’ry,” he grinned at his trainer, flashing the red molded plastic at her. “Th’s kid’ll be ‘n the ground ‘n no t’m.” He tapped his headgear firmly onto his head in reassurance and stood, knocking his gloves together in preparation for the next round.  
  
 _“And it’s Horan back up first, starting off the second go-round with an even match against Byrne. Both fighters are exchanging hits, nothing really clean landing; Horan’s doing a good job of slipping inside the punches, and now it’s Byrne who’s holding, he didn’t just throw the punch… there’s the bell to end it! One point ahead! I didn’t think it would be that good a lead but Horan shoved out ahead, and, hey, a win is a win!”_  
  
Niall never made a big deal about wins or losses at the end of a match. His love for boxing grew out of his admiration for Olympic-level Irish fighters, watching them, wide-eyed and boyishly excited from when he was little through the days he thought, _hell, maybe I could be_ that _lad one day_. Boxing wasn’t about victories, or smashing the other guy to a heaving mess, or tallying up more W’s in his stats column. Half the time, he’d invite his opponents out for a pint or three after a fight, regardless of who won or who got more hits in.  
  
Scrutinising him as he worked in the ring, however, one would assume he had an evil twin he got to box for him. Aggressive, determined, and with no trace of the childlike curiosity that normally lit up his eyes, Niall in the ring was a different man. Despite his many years in the ring he’d not thought of a single strategic possibility other than ‘hit or be hit, fuck or be fucked.’ Exact wording aside, his moves were mature, chiefly those that required ducking and dodging. Niall seemed to be an expert at knowing what the other man was going to do a split second before it happened. He wasn’t precise, or particularly endowed with brilliant technique, but not a single spectator could deny that he was one of the most exciting boxers to watch in the present decade.  
  
The easygoing way he had about him, though, drew people to him, whether they knew he was an up-and-coming athletic talent or not. He had friends in all sorts of places, but at the end of the day, he’d unwrap his hands, coiling the dirty, sweat-soaked bandages into tight bundles, and return to the dim but well-furnished and well-loved flat he shared with one of his best mates, a fellow athlete two years his junior.  
  
More often than not, a salad bowl colourfully decorated with the final dredges of three different types of sugary breakfast cereal would greet him at the side table next to the worn leather couch when Niall finally sprang through the door at odd hours of the night. Owl-eyed Harry would gaze at him blearily, the muted lights from the television flickering over his face in a rainbow matching the sad, milk-soggy leftovers from his “meal.”  
  
“Niall, do y’know what _time_ it is?” coughed out Harry, pulling his bedroom comforter around his shoulders. He looked like a fluffy volcano with a tangled mess of curly hair as the magma just peeking out from its striped mouth.  
  
Shrugging and dropping his boxing gear onto the floor next to the landing, Niall took a moment to reflect upon the question before frowning and offering, “Not nearly late enough to merit you being up waiting. You could have come, you know.”  
  
Harry snorted. “Surprised you didn’t. No girls begging for the d tonight, mate? Bad go. Even off a win you can’t pull.” Considering this, he snorted again, his sleep deprivation rapidly transforming it into a cackle.  
  
Niall rolled his eyes and laughed in response, “You, Haz, need to go to bed now. How long have you even been up? Dude, we’re touring back to London in two days, and if we’re successful, we’ll be getting out of this place and living in London.”  
  
Nodding indistinctly, Harry dragged himself off the sofa and into the bedroom, Niall grabbing the clicker and shutting off the blurry sound of infomercials before trotting in behind him.  
  
Known for his late-night training regimen, Harry Styles was the ultimate upstart fighter. The irony that he was a “stylist” fighter was not lost on Niall or on the athletic media, but who could really be surprised? Limbs as long as Harry had were _meant_ for classic out-fighting. He typically didn’t want to crunch into his opponents, generally fighting with faster, longer range punches and gradually wearing his challengers down.  
  
It was odd but somehow made perfect sense that Harry fought how he lived: always seeking to maintain distance between himself and his opponent, never allowing himself to bring his too-open eyes around to his competitors. In the ring, he didn’t want to get knocked out. In the bar or the club, he didn’t want to get attached. Not that he didn’t like people; on the contrary. He loved them, being surrounded by them, being the life of the party. Harry was a people-pleaser. That was likely how he and Niall got on so well.  
  
Searching Harry’s large, tired eyes, Niall pulled his tank top off and kicked off his Supras, clambering into bed and sighing. “Why do you do this to yourself, Harry? You’re always worse for wear when you work out late.”  
  
Harry’s shrug burrowed him further into his comforter-burrito, murmuring softly, “It’s just easier that way.”


	2. train like you'll fight

_"Train like you'll fight."_

The idea was that Zayn would loosen up a bit before the second fight of the week by going out to the club. The night before the match, he would lose himself in being surrounded by bodies, standing at the booth spinning an hour and a half-long record mix, and a three-drink maximum. (That last one was Liam’s call, not Zayn’s.) He had easily trumped Greg Something-or-Other in the bout on Monday, so this was a kind of celebration rolled into an easygoing prep for his go against Niall Horan, one big blowout of it.

Louis never turned down a Fight Night Bang-up, and he bounded into the club directly following Zayn. Louis, of course, was wearing his tightest grey skinny jeans, more than ready to make the world fall at his feet with one flip of his soft hair. He tried to imitate the brooding pout Zayn had pasted on his face, tugging him further into the throng of gyrating bodies with a barking laugh. “Ease up, man. Find a bird and do that hip thing you do so well. Sex tonight, first-rate fight!”

Rolling his hips against Zayn’s briefly, Louis patted him on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd. Zayn rolled his eyes, half-smiling and lighting a cigarette as he popped out of the club to lean against the brick wall. Dim lights flooded the alleyway, deeming it one of the safest clubside alleys Zayn had ever seen. He chuckled at the thought, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Normally he’d be all over the DJ booth, mixing until Louis dragged another poor soul away from the dance floor and into a cab, but tonight, he felt apprehensive.

This was a big fight. This fight determined whether or not he would win the money he’d been fighting to earn for the past months, if not years. Zayn hadn’t realised how big it was going to be until S.C. came out of his office, silently looming in the middle of the gym while Zayn was training with Liam the other evening.

Just his intimidating presence had spooked some of the newer recruits to the gym into dropping a dumbbell or two. S.C. peered through the ropes at Zayn, whose shaking legs weren’t doing him any favours as he fruitlessly tried to dodge around Liam’s admittedly tough combinations. “What are you doing, Malik?” his gruff voice asked incredulously. “Do you know how many rounds Niall had to win to even get close to fighting you?”

Liam and Zayn had paused to consider this. “No, not really…?” Zayn lilted awkwardly. He winced at how childish he sounded. “Which fight is this again?”

Sighing deeply and crossing his beefy arms, S.C. admonished, “You’re kidding me. This is your final fight for the summer season, and it’s the one with the twenty-k-quid prize at the end of it. You know you can box better than this. Don’t take yourself out of the match before you even look at the ring. Train like you’ll fight, Zayn.”

Zayn _needed_ that money. His older sister had worked her way through her life all right, being the eldest, and Zayn had helped on his own with S.C.’s sports scholarships, but his younger sisters were floundering at school as it was, and nobody really knew if his mother and his dad could afford to put two more kids through the uni system, especially with tuition rising as high as it had been lately. Winning that prize would mean an endless amount to his family, and he could afford to send both his little sisters to top-notch universities, if they wanted, and then some. Maybe he’d even be able to earn that upper degree in literature he’d been wanting since he entered upper school.

 _But first I have to fight that Horan guy,_ Zayn mused, tossing the butt of his cigarette onto the already ash-laden asphalt and crushing it under the toe of his shoe. He gave a curt nod to the backdoor bouncer before sliding back into the humid crowd, the bass thumping through his body and probably giving him early-onset, club music-induced arrhythmia. That wouldn’t be helpful if he intended on continuing his athletic career for as long as possible.

His eyes flicked over the mass of sweating, dancing bodies, searching quickly for a striped shirt and perfectly swooped bangs. Zayn thought he had everything about Louis pegged by now, but he still raised his eyebrows not entirely disapprovingly when he identified the older boy, dancing (if he could even _call_ it that, it was more just rhythmic gyrating in tandem) with a taller, lanky boy with a mop of messy hair. From his place at the bar, Zayn stared incredulously as the curly boy not-so-delicately clutched the hair at the nape of Louis’ neck, nipping kisses along his throat and leaving a sucking bruise on his collarbone. Louis’ eyes fluttered closed, but all the while he stayed moving to the music, pressed flush against the taller boy.

Pulling a neutral face and ordering a drink, Zayn decided it would be best to leave that one alone for the time being. He would take the drink carryout and walk back to his flat, maybe try to get a good night’s sleep, for the first time since God knew when. The pretty blonde bartender gave him a wink as she passed him his drink, her cell number undoubtedly written on the napkin-coaster she handed him alongside his glass.

Zayn gave her a quick once-over. Ordinarily he would be all over her (or the other way around) by this time of night, but there was a weird buzzing in his stomach that he couldn’t shake, and Zayn thought maybe it was time to head out, with or without Louis.

He tucked the scribbled-upon paper into his pocket and grabbed his drink, hoisting himself off the barstool and heading towards the exit. Passing briefly by Louis and his boy toy du jour, Zayn allowed himself a glance. Catching his mate’s eye, Zayn lifted his drink in a toast to Louis’ conquest, causing Louis to smirk proudly and tilt his head in return. Zayn considered that his signal to leave, tipping an imaginary hat in the boys’ general direction and turning to step out the exit and hand the valet his ticket.

Glancing down at the half-finished drink in his hand, Zayn wondered briefly how many bar glasses he had inadvertently collected over the last few years. Shrugging, he downed the rest of it.

\----

“No worries, Niall Horan, all you have to do is just tell us your name, how old you are, how long you’ve been training for this, and why you want to win,” the elfin brunette woman fussed, clipping a microphone onto Niall’s collar.  

Niall waved his hand, offering the woman a half-smile in acknowledgement. Harry would usually be buzzing around, flirting lazily with the interviewer as she prepped Niall for the standard pre-fight camera gauntlet, but this morning he was rocking back and forth on his feet, drooping, tired eyes flicking between Niall and the crowd steadily filling up the arena.

“What’re you lookin’ at, Haz?” Niall peered around the locker room corner, trying to follow Harry’s gaze. He paused when his eyes fell upon a very attractive but tired-looking man checking his phone in the center of the second row, who also seemed to be peering back at him. “Harry… who’s _that_?”

Caught off guard, Harry stumbled back against the wall, trying desperately to look nonchalant. “Who? I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Noticing the guilty look on Harry’s face and the cameraman approaching quickly, Niall raised an eyebrow at his mate, saying bluntly, “You’ve got twenty seconds to tell me something, else I will not let it drop.” He gazed at Harry innocently but expectantly.

Harry glanced from left to right, mumbling out lowly, “His name is Louis and he’s a boxing ref here in London and I met him at a club last night and.” He stopped himself abruptly, swallowing thickly as the interviewer raised an eyebrow at him, microphone in hand and the other on her hip.

She grinned saccharine-sweetly. “Harry, love, could you do us a big favour and tell the announcer we’ll be but a minute? _Thaaaanks_ ,” she drawled, motioning to her cameraman.

Niall coughed, pulling a face at Harry, who bounded out with a mightily sarcastic salute, before starting the interview.

“So, Mr Niall Horan, tell us about yourself.”

“Er, well, I’m Niall Horan, as y’know. I’m twenty-one years old and I’m fightin’ fer Mullingar, Ireland.”

“Small town, that. How long have you been training for this fight?”

“I mean, I’ve been boxin’ fer ages, since I was a lad, practically, but this match is really important t’me. Twenty thou is a lot of money, but it’s not just about that – I have t’ prove to m’family and t’ everyone that dreamin’ big isn’t pointless. That, y’know, a normal kid, just some buddyboy boxer from Mullingar or wherever, can go t’ London or America or somet’in and succeed on his own, on the sheer force and power of his boxing. Not very many people come out of a place like Mullingar and make it. I want t’ be that guy, selling out Pay-per-View fights and jamming bars on nights when I’m tossin’ another opponent t’ the bottom of the scoreboard. I have to win. Not just for me, but for Mullingar. Fer my home.”

“Well, I’m sure everyone at home and everyone out here wants you to succeed. Sounds like you’re going to fight your hardest out there, doesn’t it?” the interviewer beamed sunnily.

Niall furrowed his brow, but continued smiling his lopsided smile. “I always fight m’ hardest. And if the day comes I don’t, well…” He paused, then laughed. “Someone’s bound t’ notice. And I’ll get a good hard arse-kickin’ fer it.”

The interviewer laughed too hard and signed off, hastily unclipping the microphone as Paul came waltzing into the warm-up room, all broad shoulders and thick arms and stern face. “Thanks a lot, Niall – uh, Mr Horan – uh!” She scurried away, mousy cameraman in tow.

Harry laughed as the irritating duo scuttled off, undoubtedly to ask Niall’s opponent Zayn Malik the same overplayed questions. Paul approached gruffly, saying something about the match starting in fifteen minutes, and Niall nodded. He had to get into the zone. Harry retrieved Niall’s water bottle and handed it to Paul, before whispering in Niall’s ear, “You’ll do amazing, mate. Knock him out.”

“No doubt.” Niall gave him a quick hug before Harry scampered off to, undoubtedly, ‘Louis’ in the seats. As he clicked to his warmup playlist, Niall peered out into the audience, watching as Louis’ face lit up to see little but lanky Harry bounding towards him.

Niall jogged in place, closing his eyes and tugging his Under Armour sleeves up higher on his biceps, Bon Jovi blaring as he imagined Zayn Malik in front of him, breath heaving through his mouthguard as Niall hits him once, twice, three times clear in the face, and one sharp jab to his ear sends him to the floor, and Niall’s lifting his arms and grinning a bright red plastic smile and Paul is tapping him on the shoulder and Niall is opening his eyes and it’s time to fight for real.

\----

“Fuck, Liam, what is this man’s problem? It’s like he has a personal vendetta out for me or something,” Zayn gasped out, taking a swig from his water bottle, sweat pouring from his forehead into his eyes.

Liam patted a towel over his face, mopping up the sweat. He shrugged, “He’s pretty good. You’re tied. You never tie. It’s like he knows what you’re going to do before you do it. Trick him. Make a decision, then change it at the last second. Don’t do what you think is best. You’re going into overtime again, and you have to do it. You have to.”

Nodding frantically, Zayn strained to close his eyes and found that he couldn’t. He looked straight across the ring, only to meet Niall Horan’s eyes. Startled, Zayn tried to recover seamlessly, attempting to furrow his brow and look menacing and determined, but the other boy had simply frowned and spoke in hushed tones to his own trainer. Liam was stretching Zayn’s arms and back out as Zayn took deep breaths, Louis calling out to him murkily from the second row.

“Come on, Zaynie, I know you’ve got more in you than that!”

Zayn managed a meager thumbs-up at Louis and, was that Curly Hair from last night?, before the bell rang again and his bright green mouthguard was back in and he was cracking his neck and he was moving.

Something in Horan’s eyes was different, Zayn supposed, figuring it was just exhaustion getting to him. Instead of taking punches straight at Zayn, he had leapt into a cover-up, and all Zayn had to do was swing his left arm to hit the seam between those pale but strong arms and the guard was down. He swiftly took the opportunities to send his right glove flying into Horan’s face, and he staggered back a few steps, breathing hard and going into his guard again.

Zayn couldn’t stop landing punches. All he could see was flashes of pale skin and red mouthguard and headgear and those blue eyes that seemed so determined yet still so resigned. All he was thinking was _one more, one more, points points points why is he looking at me like that I’ve got to hit him, one more one more, for Waliyha, for Safaa, one fucking more._

Horan swung at Zayn, getting a hit in on the ears as the bell sounded and the referee signalled stop.

His eyesight went fuzzy, and Zayn screwed up his eyes, trying to regain mental traction. He barely registered his chest heaving and his opponent staring wide-eyed lasers into him as  the referee leaned into his shoulder to hear the judges’ verdict. Gulping for breath and water like some sort of ugly, desperate boxing fish, Zayn managed to make sense of Louis’ and Liam’s cheers and whoops in the crowd of manic boxing spectators and flinched under the holes being bored into his face by Curly, who looked something like concerned when Zayn had expected either enthusiastic or disappointed.

He felt his arm being lifted by the baby-smooth hand of the referee and promptly began to cry.


	3. you don't know

_"You don’t know what you’ve got yourself into."_

_I don’t feel bad,_ Niall realised. Coming in second in the region wasn’t something to scoff at, and the consolation prize was still five k. But something had possessed him to ease up on Zayn Malik the second time they went into overtime, and he could not put his finger on it for the life of him.

He also couldn’t put a finger on who was paying for which drinks, as he peered into Zayn’s eyes again while they chatted and shot the shit at the bar. Zayn had ordered a rum soda, which Niall tried not to judge as he asked for his typical whiskey.

They talked about everything and nothing at all, and Zayn inched a little bit more off the edge he seemed to always be perched upon with each sip of his drink. Niall appreciated Zayn’s easy sense of humour, as he himself borrowed his, tending to recycle jokes he’d heard on Buzzcocks or the radio. Zayn laughed anyway.

Niall was both nervous and relieved that his opponent had accepted his invitation to go out for a couple of pints after the obligatory (and irritating, they both agreed) post-fight interviews with that tetchy, sycophantic bird that _some_ how was famous, for one of the upper channels on cable. _It’s because she’s hot,_ Zayn had said, rolling his eyes and laughing roughly, and something in Niall frowned and he prayed it wasn’t his face.

Of course, they had to discuss boxing in general, but Zayn deftly dodged the topic of the match itself. Niall wasn’t having his whole modesty shit, regardless of how furrowed his brow got when Niall brought it up. Which he did. Repeatedly.

“I heard what you’re planning on doing with the money,” Niall admitted, and Zayn looked up from his glass this time, an unreadable look on his face. “I think that’s brilliant. A lot better than what I wanted, anyway. More important.”

Stumbling over his expressions, Zayn seemed to settle on a mixture of sheepish and proud. “Thanks, mate. That really means a lot. I’ve worked honestly for what I’ve got so far and it’s pretty tough being away from everyone, but I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve had, y’know?” Niall nearly tossed back the whole rest of his whiskey at the sincerity. Zayn continued, “My mum cried when I told her. She does it a lot, I guess, she’s kind of crazy. But it’s nice, y’know, because she’s being supportive.”

Niall nodded. “My dad really likes what I’m doing, with the boxing, and, I mean, I suppose it’s all relative. I just wanted to do somethin’ my hometown could be proud of.” This time he did tip back the last bits of his drink, grinning at Zayn, whose own glass was still half-full.

“Shut up,” Zayn said indignantly, and both he and Niall began to laugh. The sound was apparently promising to the bartender, who brought each of them another drink.

Gesturing to Zayn’s glass, Niall prodded, “Best finish your first one, _then_ we’ll have a go at the next one, yeah?”

“Yeah, bit presumptuous of him, if you ask me,” Zayn responded of the server, letting out a laugh as he took a few gulps of his unfinished alcohol. “Gotta be careful, though,” he warned teasingly, “don’t want to get too smashed or else we might do something we regret.”

The way Zayn’s mouth curled up into a smirk and his eyebrow quirked suggestively gave Niall pause. He floundered briefly trying to pick up his thoughts and mold them into a string of words that would make at least vague conversational sense.

“D’you have a girl or something? Why’d you come out with me instead of-“

“Taking one of those half-to-panting spectator girls home?” Zayn finished, shrugging. “You seemed a better choice in the moment. Don’t make me regret it, Horan, going all soft on me now!”

Niall shook his head, the blood inside his skull thumping to the too-high bass in the music on the dance floor behind them. Smiling toothily, he pulled out his buzzing phone to see a couple of “congratulations!” texts from his brother and a few friends back home. Zayn grabbed it, exiting out of the messages quickly. Niall knitted his eyebrows together, but wasn’t worried. For some reason, Zayn seemed trustworthy. And Niall was used to going with his gut.

When he was done doing, well, whatever it was he was doing, Zayn slid two phones across the counter, one open contact reading “Zayn Malik” and the other blinking “Niall Horan.” Raising an eyebrow, he elaborated, “Your number?”

Niall nodded this time, feeling foolish. The dim overhead lights probably masked the redness threatening to creep up his neck to his face, for which he was grateful. He thumbed his number into the phone (which was only marginally less shit than his own; maybe he could buy a new one now; maybe both of them could) and tossed it back to him gently.

“This might mean I’ll be texting you film quotes nonstop, you know,” Zayn warned. “Probably annoying ones from Grease or Stepbrothers. Mm, not probably. Definitely. You don’t know what you’ve got yourself into, mate.” He let out an open laugh.

Niall snorted, admitting, “Magazine factoid: Grease is one of my favourite movies. But if you let that interview bird know, though, I’ll have to kill you.”

He had opened his mouth to say something else when Harry’s Louis came bounding up, shouting something about Zayn being a “goddamn motherfucking champion” and then asking Zayn blankly for a “moment, please” in the same breath. Harry stood behind, wide-eyed and looking terrified, tugging desperately at Louis’ arm and muttering nonsense through his teeth in Niall’s general direction.

Zayn frowned, asking, “Do you two know each other? We haven’t met – Harry, right? Zayn.” He offered his hand and Harry stared at it, mouth agape, before taking it and shaking it a little too  hard.

Niall eyed the interaction warily, confused. “Yeah, Harry and I are flatmates-”

A full smile graced Zayn’s face at that, and he was beaming what felt to Niall like pure sunlight as he let Louis drag him away into a quiet corner adjacent to the bar, by the back door.

\----

Zayn thought about Niall and his obsession with proving himself and his grin failed to fade as he remembered how earnest he’d been when he told Zayn he was happy for him. He felt something like regret when Louis had unceremoniously (but, for Louis, there was no other way) yanked him away from his barstool. He hadn’t even had time to grab his glass to deal with whatever Louis needed to say to him so urgently.

“Y’know, if you need a condom, this is a very uncharacteristic way of asking for one,” Zayn intoned, patting his wallet in his back pocket.

Louis’ typical mischievous glint was absent from his face now that Harry was out of his sight, and Zayn chalked it up to his current status as a smitten kitten. (Niall had said his brother’s girlfriend had called Niall that when he was younger and obsessed with Cheryl Cole.) Rolling his eyes and offering nothing more than stark worry, Louis said, “No, you twat. I’ve got one, anyway.”

“Niall’s actually a really cool bloke, and if he and Harry are flatmates, that’s well off, yeah? If it’s serious between you and him, it would be really well done, we could chill out in London all the time.” Zayn managed to fit in a grin before Louis started, waving a hand agitatedly.

“No, that’s the thing, Zaynie, I don’t know if you know this, but Niall _let_ you win tonight. Hazza showed me some videos of his better matches and, Christ, Zayn, he absolutely slays everyone.”

Pulling a face, Zayn let out an exhale that was meant to come out as a laugh. “So, you’re telling me that you don’t believe that I won on my own talent, tonight of all nights? Fuck you, Lou, that’s some joke you’re pulling here.”

Anguish immediately painted Louis’ typically impish face. “No, no, I’m not – Haz and Niall have been mates for ages and he told me at the match, during the fight, that he was easing down, not giving you his best, that he knew it from when they trained together at their gym, and-”

“Look, Lou, I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, protect me from – something, I don’t know, I don’t need help with anything. Why are you doing this?”

Louis grabbed hold of one of Zayn’s calloused hands in his two smaller ones, a beseeching look in his eyes. “Have I ever lied to you before?” He hesitated. “Well,  seriously, anyway, pranks notwithstanding? I’m not out to hurt you, mate, you’ve got to know that. I thought you ought to know the truth, whatever come of it.”

It was alarming to see Louis so upset, and Zayn tugged his arm away to lean up against the wall, propping the door open with his foot and lighting a cigarette, the vent just outside the exit sucking up the smoke he exhaled. He had to think.

Would it be so bad if Niall did really deserve to win? He didn’t want to. He gave it up. What reason he had for it, Zayn couldn’t guess for the life of him. _But then… why did he try so hard to be his friend if he had lost, even purposefully?_ Guilty conscience, Zayn surmised. He probably didn’t want to be mates for real, anyway, just to play along until he felt better about losing because _he_ gave up. Checking the time on his watch briefly, Zayn breathed, “Christ.” He had spent four hours talking with Niall at the bar. Sharing his happiness, his family life,  his lifelong dream. _Wasted_ four hours at the bar, Zayn reminded himself.

Bile began to rise in his throat. He had met the guy not even a full day earlier, and his blood was boiling as he stewed over the way Niall had treated him. Zayn came by what he had honestly. That was his _thing._ And to have that thrown away over a stupid boy – man – whatever – was, frankly, embarrassing. And degrading.

Louis watched nervously as Zayn hurled his cigarette to the sidewalk just outside the cracked-open door, smashing it under the toe of his shoe more than necessary. Resentment flashed over Zayn’s face and he grit his teeth, making movement to give Niall a piece of his mind.

Not two steps and he smacked straight into Louis, whose feet were planted firmly, but slipping a little as Zayn shoved him aside. “What the _actual_ fuck, Lou, get out of my way.”

Shaking his head, Louis insisted, “We’re leaving now. No need to deal with that nonce, he’s a prick and a liar and a nutter. You’re drunk, and Liam’s gone to deal with him; I can see him now, and you’ll be fine. We’re going, get out the door, chase the smoke and go to bed.”

“I’m not drunk, Lou, I’m just gone to give him an idea of why he can’t fuck with a guy like that, there’s a _code_.” Zayn’s head felt clearer now than when he started drinking. Score one for pissed off v. pissed.

Zayn fought Louis’ pushes (which Louis was a trouper for enduring; Zayn was a semi-professional athlete, after all) all the way out the back door, but he begrudgingly got in the cab. Louis slid in next to him, pulling out his phone and tapping out  a quick message, his bottom lip caught by his teeth.

Sighs filled the back of the car simultaneously, one exhale frustrated, the other exhausted. Louis’ face was lit up by the faint blue glow of his screen, his fingertips moving against the glass and plastic deftly. A text to Harry, no doubt, assuring that Zayn was contained. Animal control was not necessary. His jaw creaked as Zayn yawned widely, bringing him to the hazy realisation that he had never unclenched it after receiving the information.

Maybe he just needed to get it on with a random girl from the pub or the market or the far recesses of his contacts list. Zayn considered this. It dawned on him that he hadn’t had sex in probably a month. A frown appeared on his face. He hadn’t gone a month without sex since he was probably fifteen or sixteen. A month? Jesus. And, if he recalled correctly, last time wasn’t that great either.

“Can hear you thinking, Z,” Louis murmured.

“’Bout your mum,” he countered lazily. Even though he and Louis joked around a lot that way, it tasted wrong in his mouth somehow. “If it’ll keep you awake enough to pay this driver, by all means, keep sexting Harry. Send him a picture of your dick, I’m not looking.”

Louis snorted, his eyes tired but his smirk firmly replaced where it belonged. That, at least, was something Zayn could count on.


	4. hit or be hit

_"Cut the shit, Niall."_

The incessant beeping, usually faint, sounded blaring in the deafening silence of the room. Niall plucked his cell phone from its warm spot on his stomach, where it had been glowing all night. He couldn’t have slept last night for the life of him; he was far too wound up to even think about his potential hangover status when he woke up. So he just… didn’t go to sleep. Preventative measure, he reasoned with himself. Like he had something to prove.

Closing the pop-up alarm window, the screen seemed brighter, almost glaringly so. The familiar letters at the top of the message inbox were tattooed onto Niall’s eyelids, so when he blinked hard, he could still see “Zayn Malik” and the short text he had sent while they were drinking together like he had never closed his eyes.

_Zayn Malik: (03:41) a hickey frm kenickies like a hallmark card… ill ask lou n get back to you on what 1 frm harry’s like :) aha_

He wondered if sending him a message this early after hanging out with him at the bar would be too soon. Niall was briefly reminded of the feelings he felt after chatting up a girl: should I call her now, will a text do, should I wait for her to contact me first? Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Niall sat up, stretching his spine upward before hunching over his phone again.

_(07:08) hey man great talkin t you last night - let me know if your going out again this week n mayb well see each other? cheers!_

That would have to do. He didn’t want to fuss over semantics any longer than necessary.

Part of Niall hoped that Zayn wasn’t awake, but he knew that he was. But he probably wouldn’t check his cell for messages this early anyway; at least, that’s what Liam Payne had reassured him last night.

Liam Payne! He could hardly think of last night without beaming. “Hey, Niall Horan, yeah? Good go tonight; I train Zayn and you really gave him a go of it, ‘til the end there, anyway,” Liam had said, taking Niall’s hand and shaking it without even a thought.

Fanboying was in his nature, and Niall had prayed to God that his sheer delight and glee over being approached in a bar by celebrity boxer Liam Payne hadn’t overtaken his voice as he tried to stutter out words in response to Liam’s gentle firmness. “Oh, m’God, wow, er, I mean, I didn’t do that great, but that really means a lot! I look up t’ you so much, man. Wow.”

Niall cringed internally. He could practically see the exclamation points. And what fell out of his mouth was honest, and just so happened to be truthful. Yeah, he threw the match on purpose. But Liam didn’t know that – or did he? Fuck! What would happen if his boxing idol found out that he lost on purpose for no reason whatsoever? He would look weak and flaky and irresolute and all sorts of pathetic. Niall crossed his fingers mentally (he seemed to be praying and wishing a lot lately; probably all the services he went to as a kid manifesting now) and smiled openly at Liam, glancing in the general direction Louis dragged Zayn not two minutes earlier.

“Oh! This is my best mate Harry; he’s a boxer, too,” Niall offered, remembering Harry was milling about too.

“Thanks, Niall. I’m sure he would’ve noticed me eventually.” Harry grinned lazily at Liam, shaking his hand as well. “How’re you doing?”

Liam was still smiling but his eyes, too, were somewhere else. “Good, man, good. Thanks so much for the support.” He paused, then looked into Niall’s eyes curiously. Niall froze, but slowly relaxed as Liam continued, “Hey, sorry to have to do this, but Zayn’s got some quite early training tomorrow morning and he had to rush. I have to go; ‘was great meeting you. See ya ‘round, sometime, yeah?”

He patted Niall and Harry on the shoulder before trotting off. Niall expected him to follow Zayn and Louis through the back, but he went out through the front, dropping a kiss onto the forehead of a beautiful girl – undoubtedly his wife, Danielle – as he left.

Niall turned back to his pint, swallowing a few gulps in celebration of what he considered a successful conversation with one of his idols, and glanced over at Harry, whose phone was buzzing nonstop in his hand but whose eyes were fixed on Niall.

“What?”

Raising an eyebrow, Harry said shortly, “Were you always planning on throwing the match or was it a spur-of-the-moment thing?”

Niall nearly choked on his drink. “E-excuse me?”

“Cut the shit, Niall. We’ve known each other for ages and now is not the time to start the lying game. Why did you do it? Because that was not a fair fight, mate. I could tell the second you stood up the second round of over.”

Niall hadn’t known what to say. So he stuttered through an assessment of Zayn and the fight as best he could and left Harry to accept it for what it was and roll his eyes, like he already knew all the answers and just wanted to watch Niall trip up. And so Harry did, chewing on a piece of gum and looking at Niall expectantly. Neither of them said anything, so Harry slid into the seat previously occupied by Zayn and tapping on his phone, a pinkness to his ears that he tried to cover nonchalantly with his hair.

Niall decided not to say anything that time, and so they sat in silence for the better part of an hour, whereupon Niall paid for the drinks and Harry drove them home in their rental car.

Swinging his legs over the side of his bed, Niall peered at the curly hair sticking out of the mass of bedcovers in the bed next to him. Harry was wrapped tightly around an unfamiliar purple hoodie, long limbs sprawled across the mattress. Smiling at the sight, Niall slipped his cell phone into the pocket of his sweatpants, pulled on a tank top and decided that this morning would be absolutely  _lovely_  for a run.

He promised himself that if he made it his best time yet, only then he would let himself check his phone.

\----

Zayn ignored Niall’s first text. And his second and third. And his five calls, and his two voicemails. He felt like a huge douchebag at first, but then he remembered that Niall was a manipulative guy who did strange things for unknown reasons and he felt marginally less bad about it.

To be honest, the dangerous tightness Zayn felt in his stomach every time he felt his phone buzz or his ringtone go off was less due to his offense at Niall’s purposeful loss than it was the honest laughter and terrible, recycled jokes he’d made at the bar after the fight. Zayn had pegged him as an earnest, hardworking guy, like himself. Not someone whose mind was a bag of cats who did stupid things like lose on purpose and then pretend to befriend their victor.

He was just glad that Louis had sent Liam to chew Niall out, because, for all his talk that night, Zayn wouldn’t have been able to do it, because he kept thinking about Niall's wide, honest blue eyes and how simply he interacted with Zayn after the fight. And, anyway, he wasn’t really one for confrontation, except in the ring. But therein lay the rub: Zayn refused to schedule any more matches.

Not that he wasn’t still training; he had to do  _something_  to release his frustration, and luckily for him, Liam had the keys to the gym, so Zayn pretty much had 24/7 access. But despite his massive, exponential improvement in the practise ring, he absolutely would not fight this guy or that guy from God knew where. And S.C. wasn’t having it.

“What are you playing at, Malik?” He shouted, waving his arms like one of those inflatable wiggling men used to sell cars and spray tans. He was trailed by a slightly worried-looking Louis. “Twenty people have called my offices in the last week asking to schedule a match with you, and I trust Tomlinson here to deal with that, so it’s not a problem, usually. But this morning, what the hell do I find? This morning, I’m eating my bowl of Weetabix, just casually doing what I do, and I look into my email and they are  _all_  marked ‘urgent’ and they are _all_  asking if I know when you’re going to be fighting again!”

Louis interrupted, “Well, you see, Zayn and Liam and I felt that he should try to work on his game and ride this high as long as possible, you know? Do loads of press and build up to the next fight so he’ll have a lot to go off and-”

“That is  _not_  your decision to make, Tomlinson!” S.C. roared, his voice bouncing off the cement walls and reverberating across the huge gym.

Zayn stopped pommelling the stationary bag and exhaled loudly. “I want a rematch against Niall Horan.”

S.C. took pause at this. “What?” he asked, his face screwing up into something like confusion. “But you won. You have nothing to prove now. Move on, take on your next opponen-”

“No.”

“No?” S.C. crossed his arms and peered at Zayn incredulously. “No?”

“No,” Zayn affirmed, grinding his teeth. “No more matches unless I get another go at Horan first. Then you can schedule fifty fights, I don’t care, a hundred, a thousand. But I need to do this. Or I quit.”

Taken aback, S.C. considered this. “You’re a weird one, Malik. You really are. But I suspect you won’t tell me anything if I ask you why, so I won’t. I’ll contact Paul Higgins and see what I can do. After this, though, Zayn, you’re mine again.”

Zayn nodded. He needed to give this an honest go, over the same amount of money, with the same odds. A fair fight, no matter the monetary outcome. He could do anything to send his sisters to school, anything else, box  _and_  work at a shop or in an office, whatever. But his pride would not let him accept this win, the same way as he couldn’t leave the market if they’d given him too much change.

He still didn’t want to look at Niall’s messages, but he tapped out one of his own.

_(21:52) were fighting again. b ready._

\----

Harry was bouncing a little in the driver’s seat, making their loaned car swerve slightly to the left and right every now and then. Luckily they hadn’t yet scheduled their return flight back home from London when Niall nearly flung himself off the balcony of their rental flat as he got a text from Zayn.

Pulling him backwards into the safety of their living room, Harry was sent into a fit of giggles. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a lovesick little primary school girl impatiently waiting for a text from her thirteen-year-old crush, Nialler.”

Niall scoffed, indignant but red in the face (and neck and chest), reading the text aloud. “We’re fighting again, be ready.”

Raising an eyebrow and gently tugging the cell phone out of Niall’s hand, Harry said, “No, that can’t be it. Is that really it?” He chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Call Paul.”

And call Paul they did. After the fight was confirmed, Harry wouldn’t leave Niall’s side, except to shower and probably phone Louis. Niall felt that it bordered on clingy, but didn’t really mind too much. He was just glad that he was getting to see Zayn again. And he wasn’t the best texter, so what? He was probably swamped with press and with fight requests and whatever. Niall thought it was important to stay optimistic about this sort of thing. And he didn’t think too much of boxing against Zayn again, just that he would give it his all this time, because lying made him feel guilty as fuck and this fight was apparently closed to the public, so it didn’t really matter, anyway, did it? Harry hadn’t pressed about the details last time, and Niall was glad for it, because it made him far less nervous about this match.

Presently, Niall was stretched out in the back, making sure he was still limber and loose from the morning’s fight-day routine. “I’m gonna be honest with ya, Haz, you’re not really makin’ me feel too safe back here,” Niall wavered from the back seat.

“Well, put on your safety belt then, idiot. You’re not going to tighten up in the next three minutes. Just keep your joggers on, you’ll be fine.”

Niall sat up, buckling his seatbelt and bouncing his own knees a little. He didn’t think he was worried too much about the fight, but instead about Zayn.  _Stop thinking, Nialler,_  he insisted to himself.

He tried to close his eyes and think about nothing. That usually worked. Niall would just make his mind go black and get into the boxing zone, where nothing existed but movement and swiftness and  _hit or be hit, fuck or be fucked_. He would just take deep breaths in and out, inhaling and exhaling over and over, and all of a sudden he found himself in the ring, his favourite brand of red mouthguard firmly in place and the referee unnecessarily but routinely explaining the rules, and nobody was watching but Paul and Zayn’s coach or gym manager or whoever, and he and Zayn were boxing again.

Niall started the same way he always did, assessing the opponent in front of him. Zayn looked stronger, less skinny and more lean, and his feet were moving faster than they did two weeks before. Niall leaned a little on his left leg to begin with, which was something he needed to get away from, but he knew he was very physically strong for a bantamweight of his age. He used his typical right jab to freeze Zayn up, forcing him to come forward. This was a contrast to what Zayn preferred in the previous bout. Niall fought off his back foot, throwing a quick three-jab combination and sending Zayn into the rope. He eased up, moving his body backward but still centered, not too close to either corner on his original side of the ring. Trying not to look into his face too hard, Niall anticipated a swing from the left, and swiftly took Zayn out of that plan of attack, which seemed to work extremely well.

Niall won the opening round, 6-3, but Zayn did squeak by in the second, nicking it with a score of 4-2. It was 8-7 into the final round and Zayn was sweating, both literally and figuratively. Before the bell went, Zayn hissed lowly, “Give me everything you’ve got.” Niall nodded curtly in understanding, and the referee stepped out.

He kept his composure despite the hard-winged buzzing in his stomach and somehow he took the round, and thus the fight. Niall finished the round with a score of 6-3 again. But there was no crowd this time, no Irish flags flapping along with crashing waves of cheers and whoops and hollers. Niall won easily in virtual silence, and he found it eerie.

Holding his hand out in sweaty, breathless acknowledgement that it was a fair fight, Niall frowned when Zayn touched it with his own lightly and too, too briefly. He shrugged but shot Zayn a half-smile. Not one to break tradition, he opened his mouth, asking gently, “Wouldja want to go get drinks again? ...My shout?”

Zayn’s eyes met his, and Niall felt seen through as the darker ones’ piercing gaze lasered into his own. “I- I don’t think so,” he replied, his voice just as soft.

Niall frowned again, this time deeper; it felt more permanent. “I- er, that’s all right. Maybe another time, then.”

“I don’t think so,” Zayn repeated, tugging his gloves off distractedly and slipping through the ropes and into his changing room without another word, his gym manager (S.C., Niall remembered now) following close behind.

Paul gestured for Niall to approach. He did. “Good going, Niall! That’ll be morale-boosting for you, I’m sure; I’ll be getting you some more matches for right away! That looked almost easy for you. Go change, I’ll call you soon,” Paul congratulated.

“Thanks. Ah, but- could we maybe wait a little bit bef're the next match? Haven't been home in a while; I need t' sort some stuff out, too?" Niall pulled off his gloves and picked at the skin around his thumbnails as Paul nodded, confused but understanding.

Niall walked briskly to the multipurpose training room, his makeshift change room-locker room, slowing as he heard miscellaneous sentient noises emanating from the room. He peered through the door, wondering who or what was occupying the space.

His eyes widened to an almost inhuman size and he swallowed deeply, as he saw two figures on the practise-level pommel horse, one practically laying on top of the other. One, he could make out, was Harry, his telltale curly locks tossing back and forth as he moaned and ground his hips down into (who Niall assumed was, from the look of his coloured jeans) Louis’ groin. Louis’ shirt was off and his hair disheveled as he pulled his head back to allow Harry to kiss along his neck. The two rutted against each other breathlessly, nipping kisses into collarbones and licking soothing stripes across freshly blossoming bruises. Niall could tell there were tongues in mouths and hands groping arses and he backed up quickly and unsteadily, his heart pounding faster than he knew it even could.

Despite that, his heart nearly stopped beating as he quickly pieced together what was going on. Harry had known immediately that Niall had faked his loss. Harry and Louis were dating, or fucking, or something, and they were together at the first match against Zayn, and Harry and Louis were about to fuck in the training room of a gym that Niall and Zayn just fought in, the training room that Zayn probably used fairly often, and Niall had seen Louis pull Zayn aside at the bar and he must have told Zayn what happened because Harry must have told Louis he was losing on purpose during the first match and now Zayn hated him because he had lied and–

“ _Shit!_ ” Niall growled loudly, slamming his gloves onto the cement floor with a sound  _thwack_. He could hear the scrambling of the boys inside the room, the  _thud_  of a butt hitting the floor and the sibilant “ow” that followed, but he wasn’t concerned in the slightest with their present state of undress. He just knew he needed to fix things with Zayn immediately, because he didn’t know how much more of this he could take.


	5. lightning

_"Your turn now."_

The only thing that soothed Zayn after an argument was a smoke. And that bout felt pretty damn close to an argument to him. But it wasn’t one of those shouting matches of which he was so often on the losing end (somehow, he attracted infinite amounts of crazy, possessive, shrill harpies with lungs like iron and voices like banshees), it was one of those quieter, passive-aggressive fits he would get in when he was younger and nobody paid him any attention.

He lit up one cigarette after another, trying to cloud his mind, but he only ended up clouding his lungs, what with the gently wafting summer breeze pushing the smoke everywhere, and all. It wasn’t a full carton to begin with, but Zayn was surprised when he reached in and there were only a few smokes left in the cardboard. Frowning at the cinnamon-paper butt cemetery he left behind him, Zayn reentered the gym through the side entrance, blowing ashes off his still-wrapped hands and coughing lightly.

Because, of course, the only thing that made Zayn feel better after he inflicted more (probably permanent) damage upon his internal organs with soothing-in-the-moment cigarette smoke was thrashing the shit out of the free bag in the training room. And that, Zayn knew, he was good at.

He closed his eyes and let the young but fierce voice of Chris Brown flow through the speakers into his ears, flooding his brain and going on autopilot as his hands flew into the bag over and over and over. Constant movement, he reminded himself briefly, bouncing gently on the balls of his feet. More _Look at Me Now,_ less _And Zayn Malik is the winner, eking out upstart Niall Horan for a life-changing twenty thou!_ At the very idea, Zayn began to breathe harder, shift his weight faster and slam his fists into the equipment fasterand harder and he nearly screamed out his gasps as the chain on the bag rattles and he nearly sent it flying.

Or, at least, that’s what it felt like when he staggered back from the recoil and smacked clear into the flatness of a turquoise and pale white figure in Supras and stupid fucking blonde hair and he’s automatically brought back into the real world and Zayn is nothing if not immediately pissed off.

“You reek of smoke,” Niall said bluntly, before Zayn can even think something besides _UGH!,_ “I wanted to–”

“I don’t care what you _wanted,”_ Zayn spat ruthlessly, rolling his eyes and shoving himself out of Niall’s gently clutched grip on his upper arms.

Niall looked affronted. The _gall_. Zayn couldn’t even look at the storm crossing his sunny face. Too much weather was bad for his hair.

“Look, I know you prob’ly hate me and all-”

“Probably? Don’t make me laugh.” Zayn took the liberty to interrupt him again. It felt good. He deserved it.

Rolling his eyes, Niall implored, “Don’t be immature about this, I jus’ wanted to fix whatever the fuck happened with us.”

“Us? Are you kidding me, mate? Do you have _any_ idea how pathetic you made me look?” Zayn was shouting now. He never shouted. God, what was it with this kid that got under his skin? “I looked weak, S.C.’s gym looked like it needed someone’s fucking pity, and, fuck, what am I supposed to tell my mum? ‘Oh, it’s okay, I _cheated_ and the money isn’t ours after all, sorry, I guess Waliyha and Safaa need to find their own way to uni, and maybe I’ll get an office job or bag groceries at the market on _top_ of trying to box professionally and never being at home as it is.’ Is this what you wanted, Horan? Because I can’t think of a single reason why you would do this to me.”

He was half to foaming at this point, and he had to pry open his fists before his short nails scraped his palms to pulp. Obviously frustrated as well, Niall stepped forward, screwing up his eyes and mouthing numbers. Jesus Christ, was he counting to ten? Was he literally, _actually_ five years old?

Zayn looked skyward, as if to ask the heavens for patience, but his eyes snapped downward suddenly as he felt Niall’s hand brush against his waist. He began to breathe shallowly, small, sharp inhalation and shuddery exhalation, his eyes wide and glued to the rough thumb stroking his hipbone. Swallowing thickly, he watched as his tank wrinkled against Niall’s wrist, his hand looking like snow against the skin of his stomach. Zayn looked at Niall and didn’t know if his body was choking or strangling itself; all he knew was that the dark look in his blue eyes tugged the breath from his lungs and sent all the blood into his head behind his eye sockets and he suddenly couldn’t see.

Pushing Niall away abruptly, Zayn coughed out, “What the _fuck_?”

That was not what he had wanted to say.

And clearly it was not what Niall wanted to hear, either, as he looked at Zayn like he was seeing him for the first time, a deer in headlights and scared as fuck. “I- sorry,” he choked out before tearing out of the room like a bolt of lightning.

Fitting, because Zayn felt like he was just struck by some.

\----

Head cradled in his hands, Niall swore repeatedly, probably scaring the gravel beneath his feet half to death as he trudged across the driveway into the lobby of his current residence. He managed to avoid bruising his shins against anything in the trek to the elevator, no small feat considering his (probably inadvertently self-inflicted) present blind state and his sprint to the flat he shared with Harry.

All he wanted was to burrow into an endless sea of pillows and quilts and covers and just go to sleep in the desperate, desperate hopes that he didn’t actually do what he thought he remembered doing. Zayn hated him. And if he didn’t before, he did now. Niall had royally screwed up in more ways than one. In probably about seven thousand ways.

So he retreated, his tail between his legs, like a coward and like a fool and like a person ashamed of what he’d done. Niall felt done. Done with everything, and all he wanted to do now was eat everything in the flat and then sleep forever. He was thinking in superlatives and he, frankly, couldn’t blame himself.

Firmly nestled in the middle of the living room, swathed to a ridiculous degree in every fluffy item he and Harry owned, Niall shoveled forkful after forkful of leftover Nando’s into his mouth, staring at whatever reality rubbish was on television. He didn’t know the channels here. Or where the clicker was. A true tragedy.

Harry echoed as much as he walked into the flat to the probably unappealing sight. “Nialler, what _ever_ do you think you’re doing?”

It didn’t sound judgmental, and, knowing Harry, it probably wasn’t. Despite being so young, he was strangely wise about existential crises. It should probably have bothered Niall, but it didn’t. Niall was a relatively simple guy, and he appreciated Harry’s sage ways. It was just his circumstances that always seemed to be complicated.

“I… and then Zayn… and then… yellin’… and then I… and now,” Niall eked out.

Harry was having none of it. He rubbed a hand along his forehead, shutting his eyes momentarily. “You’re not making any sense. And you know it. So stop shoving food in your face for five seconds and tell me what happened.”

“I went to go apologise and Zayn went off on me and we started shoutin’ at each other and I kind of…” Niall just sort of let his voice trail off into meaningless mumbles, whereupon Harry, much like Zayn had, looked heavenward, as if humbly requesting divine guidance on how to deal with this blonde imbecile. Niall cringed at the memory of Zayn’s appalled face and felt something inside him tear. He looked painfully at Harry, whose expression softened.

“So it’s like that, hm,” he said sympathetically, snuggling next to Niall in his blanket nest, resting his head in Niall’s lap. Niall carded his fingers through Harry’s curly mop therapeutically and sighed deeply. Maybe Harry was right, he was a stupid thirteen-year-old girl.

“Zayn Malik is becoming a problem for  me,” Niall said experimentally. He found, as he said it, that it was true.

Shrugging slightly, Harry offered, “You should let this one stay unsolved. I haven’t seen you this torn up about… well, _anything_ before, and, not that I’m a sadist, Ni, but you fucked up. Let it stew, and then fix it.”

He dropped a kiss onto Niall’s knee. It soothed him, in a simple way.

“I think the stew is stuck to the pot, Haz.” Niall worried over his thumbnail, picking at it with rough and nervous hands. The metaphor was getting tangled up in his head and his mental comb broke trying to untangle it further.

They sat in silence for quite some time after that. Harry wouldn’t push; he never did. But Niall always got the feeling that he had been seen through when he talked with Harry, so Harry had never had to ask. The result was the same.

\----

Muscles like Liam’s wouldn’t suit Zayn. Or, at least, that’s what he told himself when he looked down at his stalklike legs and his vaguely defined arms in the wall of mirrors lining the room. His thumb tattooed its print onto his third knuckle, pressing into the bone in the joint harder than it probably should have, as it slammed repeatedly into the hanging vinyl and sand. Liam stood at the side of the punching bag, leaning against the mirror and flicking his hair out of his eyes. He was silent but Zayn could feel the unspoken words in the gaze trained on his face as he smashed his arms into the bag again.

Zayn’s breathing was heavy with effort, but it was roaring through the deadly quiet room along with the trained slaps of his closed fists against the equipment. He tried to shake the eyes boring into the sides of his own, growling and muttering through his gritted teeth, “I don’t know why the tosser is trying so hard, fuck, it’s like he doesn’t even know what he did. You went and sorted him right away. S’ridiculous.”

The air immediately changed from faux-nonchalant observance to something else, something expectant that Zayn tried desperately to ignore, along with every other vibe his mentor was releasing into the already stuffy room. About fifteen seconds passed before Zayn spun around to glare at Liam.

“What do you _want_ , Liam? Jesus.”

Liam had the gall to avoid Zayn’s gaze. What the hell was he playing at? Zayn said as much, shooting him a dark look as he opened his arms in utter defeat.

“About that,” Liam started.

Zayn’s eyes widened. He had to be kidding. He _had_ to. The only  reason Zayn was able to fitfully get four hours of sleep a night since that first fight against Niall was knowing that one of the few people he trusted had handled the situation for him. He couldn’t deal with more breaches of simple, _simple_ trust. If that happened, how the hell was he supposed to go through his life? Trust no man indeed.

Backpedalling quickly, Liam continued, “No, no, I _did_ go and talk to Horan when Lou pulled you off, I did. Louis didn’t lie or anything, he sent me and I talked to him.” Zayn had just let out a relieved breath when– “But I didn’t tell him you knew about him throwing you the match.”

Spluttered Zayn furiously, “B-but – what the bloody hell _did_ you say to him, then? ‘Oh, I _love_ how you’ve quiffed your hair, give me some pointers?’ I’m absolutely baffled here, Li. _Please_ explain this to me, because I’ve not got a single fucking clue.”

Liam let out a long sigh before calmly beginning to unwrap Zayn’s left hand. “I went up to him with the exact intention Louis had provided me. I was going to set that fetus straight, give him a piece of my mind and let him know that S.C.’s gym wasn’t somewhere that needed his pity, and that you sure as hell didn’t, either.

“But I got up closer to him, and I saw him there, brushing his thumb over his phone absentmindedly because his head was somewhere else far away, and he was waiting so patiently for you to return, all shiny-eyed and moony and this optimistic smile plastered onto his face and, God, I couldn’t bear to chew him out, Zayn, I’m so sorry. And it’s not my place to judge what you want to do, who you want, whatever – but I could have sworn I saw something like that hope in you too. Before Lou dragged you off, anyway.

“If you want to know what I think–” Zayn didn’t. “–you let your hotheaded stubbornness fuck up what could have been a good thing, and if you don’t get over your goddamned pride, you’ll never know what could have happened.”

Well.

That lingered for a few moments, the uneven breaths Zayn let out becoming a pregnant pause before Liam added awkwardly, “Your turn now.”

Zayn swallowed thickly, resembling a disheveled, raggedy fish as he opened and shut his mouth a few times. Struggling to think of something to appease Liam, he ran a nervous hand underneath his tank top, shuddering as he felt the ghost of Niall’s rough fingertips over his stomach beneath his own familiar callouses.

“Fuck,” he cursed lowly, and Liam chuckled.

Suddenly and strangely sympathising with a slot machine, Zayn shuffled through myriad possible solutions. Whether it was because of the lightning-fast scrolling behind his forehead or because he’d had trouble breathing since Niall had entered the gym, he didn’t know, but he was feeling dreadfully lightheaded. Dizzying desperation threatened to overcome him, and Zayn wasn’t used to not having control over himself.

He settled on a question instead of trying to puzzle out an answer, for the moment. “Will you help me?”

Liam was kind of indebted to Zayn, he figured. He was given one job and he dragged the ordeal out much longer than Zayn had planned, which was a double-edged sword. Niall was sunshine and the cloud it hid behind, and Zayn wasn’t sure whether he wanted to go outside. So it once again fell to Liam to sort it out.

“I’m an adult,” Zayn swore he heard Liam mutter as he waved a hand in dismissive goodbye after reluctantly agreeing to formulate a plan. “Can’t wait for them to shag and be done with all this.”

Zayn pretended he didn’t hear that last part. He was like Tinkerbell; he could only deal with one feeling at a time, and he was nowhere near ready to acknowledge that section of his brain just yet. One fight at a time.


	6. feather-light, match-hot

_"Can y'call it a failure?"_

“Getting kind of redundant, you two are,” Harry commented haphazardly, peeling his eyes from Louis’ jawline to glance over at a shirtless, training Niall, who was currently doing push-ups and doing controlled breathing.

Louis crossed his ankles, smirking as he shifted gently on Harry’s lap, adding teasingly, “As eager as I am to see you two go at it – _again_ – I’d really rather see you go at it in a much different way.” Niall rolled his eyes, used to Louis’ little digging (but harmless, really) jabs at how utterly _over_ the whole situation was. Harry, of course, chuckled lowly into Louis’ shoulderblade.

If he had to admit it, Niall had woken up over half of the nights in the past week alone in a cold sweat, desperately wishing that he hadn’t dreamt about the tight skin under his fingers and if maybe his hand had slid down a few inches over that toned stomach, ducking deftly beneath a familiar yet completely foreign waistband and then… who knew?

Somehow he always forced himself awake, like Dream Niall knew he had to resist temptation and respect Dream Zayn’s privacy, funny as that sounded when he relayed it back to Harry in a slightly tipsy confession that apparently sent Louis howling over the phone not fifteen minutes after. (Niall forgave Harry for sharing. Louis had forgiven him for screwing Zayn over, after all, as soon as Harry had revealed the details of their eternally platonic yet inseparably close relationship. Louis’ dry sense of humour and shamelessness came with the Harry territory now, Niall quickly found out. He accepted it readily – it would be too exhausting to battle otherwise.)

 “Look, Haz – when Liam Payne calls – y’ don’t say no, even when he’s – proposing another fight against Mister _O Great Mystery_ – that is – Zayn Malik,” Niall huffed between the up and down motions.

Frowning lightly, Harry amended, “You don’t say no when you’ve already said yes, you mean. You didn’t even listen to what he had to say before you agreed.”

He was right, of course; when he picked up the phone, Niall was a little too eager to please Liam. It wasn’t every day one of your sports idols called you on your mobile phone, and his people-pleasing attitude hadn’t really failed him before. Up until that point. _Well, can y’ call it a failure? S’ more like the boxing fates conspirin’ to hook y’ up with a second chance._

Sitting back on his haunches, Niall shrugged. “I woulda agreed regardless.”

“Ah,” Louis paused dramatically, “What would it be like to not be under the spell of such a prolific athlete? Who’s to say?”

Harry nuzzled his face into Louis’ neck, saying lazily, “It’s cute you’re supportive, but there’s no need to rub it in our faces that your best friend is famous, Lou.”

Niall cut in, “And, Haz, no need to rub it in m’ face that you’ve got someone t’ call ‘cute,’ either,” shooting a lighthearted glare in the couple’s direction as he stretched out to touch his toes.

“You could call me cute, too, if you so choose,” Louis cooed, preening. “Harry here won’t be mad, won’t he? It’s an undeniable fact. I’m a wonder to behold.”

Harry glowed proudly at Louis. It was verging on sickening, Niall thought to himself, the way they adored each other. Or, rather, it would be, if it wasn’t so obvious that they were made for each other. Uncomplicated, easy. They just fit.

That kind of relationship made Niall nervous that he wasn’t cut out for love, or for caring for someone else, because he’d be so afraid to fuck it up that he would accidentally fuck it up trying so hard not to fuck it up. That was the kind of convoluted maze he drew up for himself. He wondered if going after Zayn, trying to fix everything he ruined before anything even began, was even worth it.

“Y’know this doesn’t matter, right, Nialler?” Harry’s soothing drawl cut through Niall’s looping train of thought.

He knit his eyebrows together, answering, “It kinda does, actually?” He thought Harry understood what this meant to him, but obviously he had been wrong.

Louis let out a little exasperated sigh, like Niall was being dense. (In all fairness, he probably was.) “No, it doesn’t. This match is all symbolic, it means nothing. Not in the least official. You didn’t even tell Paul about it. S.C. doesn’t know at all what’s going on, he just wants Zayn back up and boxing in real matches. And, this time, _I’m_ refereeing.” He let this sink in for a moment, cocking his eyebrow at Niall. “Liam set it up to pull you and Z together again so we don’t have to hear him bitching and moaning or you sighing and whinging about all this crap anymore. Fight like you mean it, there’s no point in not, but really, it’s what you say that matters more.”

“I thought actions spoke louder than words,” Niall fired back. Louis and Harry laughed in response, as if they were conspiring to make Niall look a fool.

“Not with Zayn,” Louis said finally. “He’s nearly as dense as you.”

“Probably all the nicotine or tobacco or pot or whatever,” Harry interjected.

Grinning, Louis agreed, “Probably. But anyway, what happened last time probably scared him off. Just explain to him the whole mess and he’ll likely just fall at your mouth.”

Niall said nothing. He knew Louis hadn’t misspoken, and Niall hardly dared to even think of that as even the remotest possibility. Harry and Louis had taken to alternating whom they hung around, in order to be fair to each of them while this conflict went on. Dragged on, if you asked them.

Regardless, Niall had given up all pretense of not being attracted to Zayn, as it was exhausting and futile pretending part of his desire to fix things wasn’t romantically motivated. But he would honestly settle for being awkward, tenuous friends with unrequited feelings and unresolved sexual tension with Zayn if it meant he wouldn’t be plagued by guilt and sadness and bouts of irreconcilable anger at himself.

So, hopefully, this fight wouldn’t be pointless like the last. Despite the point of contention being pride and skill, Niall knew that Zayn really didn’t want to talk about the money anymore, especially because Zayn could have used it so much more than Niall and both of them knew that. Niall didn’t have anyone to support but himself; he’d seen that his mum and the rest of his family were fine on their own without him as it was. Zayn had all these big dreams for his family, for himself, and Niall was stuck with the outcome of a fight.

But he had an idea.

\----

Everything felt like an ugly span of déjà vu to Zayn. It was like every day, every night, he would open his eyes and he was standing in front of Louis and Niall and trying not to think while he let referee Louis gab on about whatever (the rules, probably, in a very strange, very Louis sense of professionalism in this ridiculous carousel of circumstance) and also trying not to let himself look up into Niall’s china-dish eyes.

But today it wasn’t a dream, it was a nightmare at four o’clock in the afternoon that he had to cope with, and Zayn was going to give it his all, or else he could never look at himself again, much less the single box of texts and voicemails he couldn’t bear to delete.  So he just swallowed, popped in his mouthguard, and nodded at Louis, who was stepping back a bit to call the start. Harry and Liam rang little bicycle bells and handbells at his signal, and tried not to look too nervous.

Niall started the fight, obviously, enjoying some success picking off Zayn’s admittedly crude advances. But the two of them were locked in at 5-5 after the first bell rang, and Zayn knew he was going well, starting off the second round just as skillfully, if not better. Zayn could tell Niall was struggling to regain his positions as his clearly determined opponent began relying on heavy right-hand pick-offs, but Niall’s quickness (Zayn should have anticipated his excellent movement, he realised half a second too late) blocked the majority of his shots. It was like the wind was dragging him around the ring, because Niall’s more patient approach saw him edge into a three point lead at the end of the round.

Puzzling for a second through his trusty repertoire, Zayn saw to it that Niall was forced to barely cling on to see the bout out after being dropped and clearly winded by a left hook to the body. Unfortunately, though, the judges (or, rather, just Liam and Louis) rewarded Niall’s cleaner work with more points.

Of course, Zayn was defeated, again being forced to accept his loss in heavy-handed silence and by an extremely slim point margin. Nothing exciting or spectacular happened when the bells clinked and jingled stupidly from the sideline, just the dull tingle of a thorough wash of nerves moving over him like the grey of the sun that had just ducked behind a cloud. He tugged off his gloves awkwardly.

Louis had hung back after gently announcing the score, arms draped loosely over Harry’s shoulders as they and Liam gazed with anticipation at the pair in the ring that felt and probably looked like ants in a shoebox, swallowed by the grandness and literal bigness of it all. Zayn felt exposed, wings pinned to the shadow box, and he offered a rough hand to Niall silently, not trusting himself to spit out the words he’d been chewing for a week.

Zayn didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t an echo of the huge, worry-filled cobalt he had been seeing tattooed on his eyelids since they had last seen each other. That was what he received, however, presented unceremoniously on a porcelain-pale face before he darted through the rings and down the halls of the gym.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Zayn said incredulously, the volume of it bouncing across the cement and metal and fluorescent lighting that filled the common area. “You have _got_ to be _fucking kidding me!_ ” he repeated, louder this time. He took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. Zayn ended up hurling his gloves to the floor and sprinting after Niall down the gym corridor to the training room, breaths heaving and whistling through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw. _Not after all this fucking trouble, no way is he getting off like that._

He barely had time to register that it was the same room where they had had their last confrontation when he barreled into a flash of dirty blonde and flushed skin, hurling indiscriminate curse words and exclamations in any direction he could find.

Zayn struggled to regain his footing, fire in his eyes and thunder cracking in his ears as he tried to find something, anything to say to yank whatever confession or truth he wanted from goddamn Niall Horan.

“Excuse me, but where do you get off? Liam and I organised this so we could put things square, best two of three, fair is fair, and so I could fucking _apologise_ to you for acting like a fickle twat and you respond like _this_? Just who do you think you are?” Zayn exploded, trying his damnedest to stop shaking. It was unsightly and he had to get ahold of himself if he was going to even begin to right this.

Niall opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, letting out a string of agonised noises not unlike the last cries of a dying buffalo or goat. “Iaaaaah. Iuuhhhhhhh.”

It was absolutely useless to try and talk to this fool. Zayn smacked his head against the punching bag in frustrated desperation. “Why did you even come today?” he muttered.

“Because I… I, uhh. I – er. I… because I don’t have the money any more,” Niall said quietly.

Who the hell cared? “Who the hell cares?” Zayn asked, bewildered and genuinely apathetic. “Wouldn’t’ve been mine anyway.”

Niall swallowed hard. Zayn tried not to eye his Adam’s apple or the rivulets of sweat still sliding over his collarbones as Niall continued his explanation in a voice lower than dirt, “But’s.”

“What?” whispered Zayn for some reason.

Shutting his eyes, Niall repeated, slower, “But it is.”

He shook his head. “I don’t need your goddamned help,” Zayn insisted roughly. Frankly, he was getting pretty offended at the repeated notion that Niall thought he was some sort of charity case. “I’m not taking your money.”

“But… you sorta already did.” _Excuse me?_

 _“What?”_ Zayn screeched. “Did you reverse rob me, shove money into my bank account? Prepay all my checks? You might fancy yourself some slick Irish Robin Hood but I’m having none of it. Why’re you playing with me? I don’t _need_ this.” The last bit was more to himself than anything else, but he said it out loud regardless.

“Haz and Louis helped me out a bit and I… I phoned y’ mum. Gave her the money m’self.”

Zayn thought he would be used to surprises from Niall Horan, but he was clearly wrong. This was totally out of the blue. He didn’t know how to respond. But… “Why would she take money from you? You’re a complete stranger. She just knows you beat me, you let me win, you’re a nutter and a crazy and, for all she knows, an arsonist or a deranged athletic fan or a serial killer, and it takes _some_ balls to call a person’s mother who you don’t know and probably hate and then give her some outrageous sum of money and– “

“I told her I was in lo– I told her that I lik– I told her I had… feelings,” Niall blurted in  half a breath, not making much sense at all.

“That’s nice, where have all those _feelings_ been for the past two mon– _oh_.” Zayn stopped himself short.

Something inside of him crackled with the same fiery anticipation and tsunami air as when he recklessly screamed into the room not fifteen minutes ago. Zayn took a step toward Niall, then another, then another, and it felt like running and it felt blindly angry or something so close to it he could taste it but instead he tasted salt and something unidentified and something so clearly and inexplicably _Niall_ and he didn’t fucking care that his fist curled into the jersey around Niall’s neck was clenched so tightly he might never be able to uncurl it, he just knew vague peppermint and soft, soft skin and blushing reds and that his mouth moving on Niall’s was like nothing he ever felt while he boxed or while he smoked or while he breathed.

He knew it was a hurricane, not a forest fire, chapped lips rubbing but wet tongue teasing and _God_ , it was so, _so good_. Short panting breaths and huffed, nasal exhales smothered Zayn’s ears and he wanted it. He wanted more, actually. “Christ,” he let out finally against Niall’s mouth, which curled up into a little smile. Not self-satisfied, but genuinely happy, like Zayn felt. “Mm.” Zayn received one of those laughs that’s more shuddery breath than real noise in response.

Niall’s chest expanded and contracted against Zayn’s in laboured attempt to even his breathing.

“I’m still mad at you, you know,” Zayn murmured against the top of Niall’s still slightly damp head, biting at his shoulder but otherwise unable to pull away, not while Niall’s fingertips were tracing patterns on his back underneath his shirt.

Niall paused, ducking his fingers beneath Zayn’s waistband an inch, then another, then another, ratcheting Zayn’s pulse up again and swirling his lightning into Zayn’s eyelids, which slammed shut at the feather-light but match-hot touch. “I don’t think you can be forever, though,” Niall mouthed slowly into Zayn’s collarbone tattoo. “And maybe we can…”

Zayn forced his head forward and let out an incoherent, “Not here, no way, not with – oh, I – not with Harry and Lou here and with Li or – yeah, no, we have to go _now.”_

\----

God, Zayn could fucking _kiss._ It was somewhat a challenge to Niall, licking into Zayn’s mouth until he didn’t taste smoke any more, just gentle toothpaste and maybe vanilla from a coffee and in the end, just wholly and fully Zayn and it was so good and Niall couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t happening.

Seconds melted into minutes into hours and he lifted his head from a delirious, delicious haze and all that was left was Harry and Louis screeching in through the doorway, yelling dirty comments at the tuckered-out pair, tangled limbs and warm comfort beneath the nest of quilts and pillows Niall never quite managed to put away. Zayn was pretty much dead to the world (in the worst best way), so Niall took it upon himself to pick up a heavy Nike and chuck it at the cat-calling duo snickering just outside the door.

“Geddoooout!” he whined in a hoarse whisper-shout, hissing a few choice swears at the clock when he saw what time it was. Nudging Zayn gently, Niall nipped and murmured along the back of his neck, prodding him to wake up.

Groggy, Zayn curled across the rest of the bed and gathered covers against his whole front (which, to Niall, was quite a shame, really, but then again, he ought not to be greedy). “Mwhat,” he rasped, clearing his throat and rubbing his eyes to be greeted by the not unfriendly sight of Harry and Louis, matching shit-eating grins on their faces and identical prim-and-proper poses as they gazed adoringly at Niall and Zayn from Harry’s bed.

“Hello, darling,” Louis probably meant to coo, but it sounded more like a crow to Niall.

Zayn groaned and flopped his head back, burrowing under pillows, as if that would make their presence go away. Niall rubbed Zayn’s shoulder soothingly, laughing roughly, frowning at the state of his voice. He managed, “Whadya want, you two?”

Harry frowned, offering, “I made breakfast.” Before Niall could say anything, he continued, “Real breakfast, Nialler, not my usual concoction; don’t fret.”

Stretching out, the four of them huddled on the living area sofa like it was made for them all, plates of eggs and sausage balanced on sinewy knees and muscle-lean thighs, and it all was easy, and they all seemed to fit together seamlessly, like a puzzle. Because in the end, everything about it was an adventure to Niall, piecing together the ragged edges of everything that happened and remembering a tired version of a tired series of ridiculous events. (Zayn made himself out to be a worse sport than Niall remembered it, so it was always up to him to take him down a notch. He never minded much. And Zayn never did erase those voicemails.)

> barn-bur-ner (n):
> 
> boxing terminology; it is a term used to describe a great and exciting boxing match. a very tight match wherein it is hard to predict who will win the game, not until the last few seconds of the final round.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! this is the end of this fic and (since this is my first time using ao3) i don't know how to make it say "complete." i'll figure it out!! but thank you so much for reading and i'm going to be writing lots more soon.
> 
>  **EDIT:** i've figured out the chapters! i don't think i'll be writing more in this universe but i have more works upcoming! thanks i love you xo


End file.
